


Taste Your Beating Heart

by savvierthanu



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Deepthroating, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savvierthanu/pseuds/savvierthanu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How McCoy learns that, though Jim may not be picky, he certainly has preferences. And that indulging them might not be so bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste Your Beating Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Howl" by Florence + the Machine
> 
> Infinite thanks to Island_of_Reil for the fantastic and quick beta.

McCoy’s bent over three separate PADDs strewn across his desk when Jim swans into his room like he owns the place. He doesn’t even bother looking up. Jim hacked his code within a month, and when McCoy switched to biometrics Jim just added himself to the list, so McCoy’s used to it by now. He braces internally for whatever’s got Jim so riled that he didn’t even bother with a quick comm to announce his arrival.

“Bones!”

McCoy hears the _whumpf_ of something soft and heavy being thrown onto the bed, then the subsequent thud when it falls off and hits the floor. Probably Jim’s gym bag.

“Jim.”

“’Hello’ to you, too,” Jim says, hands appearing to bracket McCoy’s elbows on the edge of the desk. He can feel Jim lean over his shoulder, radiating heat and self-satisfaction.

“Whatcha workin’ on?”

“Work.”

McCoy deliberately doesn’t look at Jim out of the corner of his eye. He focuses on his policy reading instead, trying to parse the differences between forms 140.3.c through 140.3.g and who the fuck gives a shuttle-flying shit.

“Ooh, talk monosyllabically to me,” Jim mumbles into the space behind McCoy’s right ear, chuckling quietly as he noses at his hairline.

“Kinda busy, Jim. If you need somethin’, find it elsewhere.”

Undeterred, Jim keeps up with his nuzzling while McCoy slowly grinds his teeth. Then, abruptly, Jim stops.

“Anyone ever tell you you smell really fucking good, Bones?”

McCoy gives in and turns his head, raising an eyebrow as far as he can. Jim just looks at him like he’s something new and interesting instead of the best friend who houses him more often than not.

“Sure haven’t.”

“Well,” Jim says, moving down to press his nose against McCoy’s neck just above his pulse, “you smell really fucking good.”

“Sweet talk doesn’t work on me.”

Jim laughs, his breath huffing against McCoy’s neck in warm puffs. “I called that on day one. I just came by to use your shower. You mind?”

“Will saying ‘yes’ make you go away?”

Jim pretends to consider, resting his chin on McCoy’s shoulder. He smells like clean sweat and the plastic-y scent of the mats in the hand-to-hand gym.

“Probably not. You’re closer to the gym. And you owe me dinner from last week. I was thinking that Vietnamese place with the awesome _pho_.”

McCoy does love that place. And he was going to order dinner soon, anyway. “Fine,” he growls, resolving to wait until Jim’s in the shower to pull up the menu on his PADD.

“You’re the best,” Jim says, kissing him wetly on the cheek and heading towards the bathroom.

 

***

 

McCoy learned very quickly that when Jim Kirk decides he wants you in his life, your life becomes what happens around Jim Kirk.

Now, McCoy will admit that he’s a smart man. As smart as anyone with a professional degree and a PhD can be, that is. The word _brilliant_ had been thrown around, but he always figured _brilliant_ was for people who could accrue that many degrees _and_ not fuck up their personal lives spectacularly. As a smart man, he should have run fast and hard in the opposite direction when Jim decided that he was best friend material. McCoy will also readily admit that he is not _that_ smart a man.

For instance, after coming home from a double shift at the clinic and collapsing into bed alone—only to wake up very not alone—and checking his comm the next morning to find several unread picture messages, from one _Kirk, JT_ , a smart man would probably do something other than open them. And, upon opening them, a smart man would probably say something other than “Jim, why is there a penis on my comm?” Then, after further inspection, “Jim, why is _your_ penis on my comm?”

“Because it was thinking of you and wanted to say hi,” is the sleepy, muffled response.

McCoy quickly decides that this is a situation to deal with after coffee and tosses his comm aside as he climbs out of bed. A sound of discontent and a few flailing limbs follow him as he stands up, but he manages to extricate himself and heads to the kitchenette.

The first whiff of the grounds as he scoops them into the machine gives him enough clarity to realize that he probably has at least five pictures of Jim’s dick on his comm now. Which is five too many.

“Come back,” Jim whines. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Oh, there was a plan,” McCoy says, watching coffee drip into the pot slowly. “How novel.”

“You were supposed to check your messages last night and get all horny and flustered before passing out here. Then I make my entrance while you’re asleep and, boom, morning blowies.”

“More like, boom, my foot up your ass,” McCoy mumbles darkly.

“I heard that. I prefer your hands but, hey, whatever gets you going.”

McCoy can feel himself flush at the image, so he busies himself with dumping coffee and sugar into a mug and stirring them together. He might still be half asleep, but his dick is apparently wide awake.

“I can see you blushing. C’mon over here so I can see how far down it goes.”

Ignoring Jim, he takes a few cautious sips and begins to feel a lot better about the whole situation. Pictures can be deleted, blow jobs are being offered. His day could start out a whole lot worse.

Turning around puts him directly in the line of fire of the full force of Jim’s bedroom eyes, which are somehow still effective even upside-down, because Jim’s head is hanging off the bed and he’s kicking the sheets off his body and cupping the growing bulge in his briefs.

McCoy takes another fortifying sip of coffee and walks over, looking down at Jim’s inverted grin.

“Hey, hot stuff,” Jim leers—probably, it’s hard to tell upside-down—and reaches over his head for McCoy’s hips, reeling him in until the top of his head is bumping McCoy’s thighs. McCoy just raises an eyebrow over the rim of his mug.

“Original,” McCoy mutters, his voice bouncing around the inside of the mug.

“Wasn’t talking to you,” Jim says, and then his mouth is pressing hot and wet and mobile against McCoy’s semi through his boxer briefs. Nearly inhaling a fair amount of coffee mid-sip at the suddenness, McCoy glares down at the point of Jim’s chin and his moving jaw as he presses open-mouthed kisses to his groin.

If the wet, raspy slide of Jim’s tongue wetting the fabric of his underwear didn’t feel so nice, he might have complained. “You better not make me spill my coffee,” he says instead.

“Oh, no, Bones,” Jim says, using the opportunity to edge down McCoy’s underwear. “You enjoy your coffee.” The tip of his tongue peeks out between his teeth as he carefully maneuvers McCoy’s erection out of the bunched-up fabric. He gives it an experimental stroke, and McCoy has to widen his stance a bit to keep his balance as the dry slide of Jim’s calluses crackles up his spine.

Jim slides his hand back to the base, holding it steady as he tries to arch up to reach it with his mouth. He misjudges slightly just as McCoy shifts a little closer, and the tip of his nose meets the tip of McCoy’s dick, making Jim break out into laughter, bright and clear as the morning sunlight streaming in. (This kicks off a slightly disturbing trend of Jim pressing his nose to McCoy’s dick and whispering “boop,” ruining the build-up to more than a few perfectly good blow jobs. Fortunately, Jim never lets it ruin the actual blow job.) Raising an eyebrow, McCoy watches as Jim is reduced to giggles, eyes crinkling as they look up at him. 

“Here,” Jim says, still grinning, “you hold it.” McCoy obligingly replaces Jim’s hand at the base of his dick. Then, idly, on a whim as he takes a sip of coffee, he moves forward enough to trail the tip of his dick over Jim’s jaw and throat, shuddering a bit at the faint scrape of stubble against oh-so-sensitive skin. Jim watches him, visibly swallowing, heat replacing the merriment in his eyes with a blink. McCoy traces over Jim’s cheek and Jim tilts his head back, licking his lips.

“Don’t tease,” Jim says, and McCoy has to smirk at that.

“You mean like all those pictures of you on my comm?” He drags his dick across Jim’s lush upper lip, then moves back slightly as Jim tries to take him into his mouth.

Jim watches his dick raptly. “Wasn’t a tease. Was a—a declaration of intent,” he says as he curls his hands around the backs of McCoy’s thighs and tries to drag him closer. “C’mon, let me make good on it.”

McCoy looks into his coffee mug, considering, and then finishes the last two swallows, the caffeine buzzing through him pleasantly. He places the mug on the bedside table and looks down into Jim’s big blue puppy-dog eyes. “You tell me if you start feeling lightheaded.” An order, not a request. Jim nods awkwardly, tilting his head back and opening his mouth.

It’s hard to resist an invitation like that, so McCoy feeds his dick into Jim’s welcoming mouth a bit at a time, watching the underside of his jaw. It’s strange not to be able to see Jim’s eyes, so he concentrates instead on the beating pulse in Jim’s outstretched neck. Jim takes every centimeter he’s given and tugs on McCoy’s thighs for more.

Not feeling the insistent press of Jim’s tongue against the underside of his dick is a little strange, but the faint, barely-there scrape of his front teeth isn’t unwelcome. He stops pressing forward when he feels Jim’s soft palate, though. He’s not in the mood to test boundaries, even if Jim is making soft little protesting noises and grabbing him by the ass. No, this is going to happen at his pace, so he draws back as slowly as he pushed in, ignoring Jim’s frustrated groan.

And while Jim’s enthusiasm and the act of thwarting it may be distracting (not to mention the wet heat of his mouth), McCoy doesn’t miss the twitch in Jim’s briefs every time he finishes a leisurely thrust. Because while Jim might have the personal gravity of a small moon—drawing everyone into his orbit whether they want it or not—he sometimes gets off on being used, on being needed. And McCoy fucking hates to admit it, but he needs the kid. Even if sometimes it’s just to work out some of his baser needs. Like getting his dick sucked first thing in the morning.

In fact, the slow heat curling behind the base of his dick is enough to distract him until two rows of teeth press ever so gently—not biting, Jim would never bite—but enough that moving would be uncomfortable. So he stops, dick mostly in Jim’s mouth, Jim’s nose bumping against his balls.

“Jim,” he says warningly. Jim doesn’t exactly throw tantrums when he doesn’t get what he wants, but being a manipulative little shit isn’t much better. This is a moment in which McCoy longs for the time and the forethought to pull out the soft synth-ropes from under the bed and give Jim what he clearly wants, but on McCoy’s terms.

Two swift swats to his ass and McCoy pulls out as quickly as he can once Jim’s teeth are out of the way, reaching down to support Jim’s head.

“You can fuck my mouth,” Jim says as soon as his mouth is free. “I want you to.”

“Gravity’s got your airways half-closed as it is. I’m not exacerbating things with my dick.”

“I’ve happily had my airways obstructed by your dick more than once. Pretty sure you enjoyed it too.”

“Yeah, because I could see your eyes.”

Jim bats his eyelashes and grins. “Aw, Bones, you think I’m pretty.”

McCoy frowns. “I like being able to see whether or not you’re in actual distress, dumbass.”

“That’s what tapping out is for. You know my limits. And I trust you.”

“Doesn’t mean I like testing them every other day,” he grumbles.

Jim winks. “The sooner you come, the sooner I can jerk off on you before you shower for class.”

“I can get you out of my hair by jerking off my own damn self in the shower.”

“But what a waste. C’mon,” Jim goads, trying to reel him in again with the hands on McCoy’s ass.

Chalking this one up as a loss for himself but a victory for both his dick and Jim, McCoy relents, releasing Jim’s head and pushing back into his welcoming mouth. He starts slow, with an easy, shallow rhythm. Jim hums happily so he pushes a little deeper, bumping Jim’s soft palate gently on each thrust. The angle makes it a little sloppy, but Jim seems to be enjoying himself, so McCoy settles in and lets warmth and arousal suffuse through him.

His eyes are closed and he’s entertaining thoughts of returning the favor sloppily if not enthusiastically when Jim takes back the upper hand. Which means that he takes the opportunity at the apex of McCoy’s next thrust to push back and swallow McCoy into his throat and then hold him there with an iron grip on his ass.

“Jesus fucking god, Jim,” McCoy sputters, hips twitching weakly as his knees go a little weak. Jim just kneads his ass and swallows again, his throat moving around the obscene bulge of McCoy’s dick. “Fuck, _fuck_ , you reckless fucking _fuuuuuuuuuck_ ,” he moans as his vision blacks out around the edges as he starts to come in the vise of Jim’s throat, crumpling over and bracing himself on the bed with stiff arms.

Jim holds him until he stops twitching, then pulls off with a gasp, coughing wetly a few times, a sticky trail of saliva and semen still connecting his mouth to McCoy’s dick.

“Of all the stupid, idiotic, hare-brained—” McCoy mutters as he reaches down to support Jim’s head and shove it onto the bed as he rolls him onto his side into the fucking recovery position just in fucking case.

“Bones,” Jim says between small coughs, his voice rasping in his used throat. “Bones, that was _awesome_.”

Collapsing onto the bed, McCoy glares at him, hard-pressed to see beyond Jim’s jumping chest and watering eyes to appreciate the intensity of the orgasm. “I hate you,” he says into his hands. “I hate you so much.”

“No you don’t,” Jim soothes as he moves his head onto McCoy’s lap, reaching up to wrap his hand around a wrist and tug it away from McCoy’s face. “You just hate surprises.”

Well, yeah.

“I’m not letting you jerk off on me. You can jerk off on yourself. Or in the shower. I don’t care, but I’m not rewarding you for that stunt. Negative reinforcement.”

Infuriatingly, Jim chuckles. “Yeah, about that. Kind of took care of itself.”

McCoy glances at Jim’s crotch and finds a darkened patch of wet fabric.

Grinning, Jim mouths _awesome_. McCoy glares, but files the information away.

 

***

 

Jim continues to send him pictures of his dick, and McCoy makes sure to delete all of them within twenty-four hours. Not before downloading a choice few to his personal PADD and burying them as deeply as he can amongst outdated medical journals, however. If Jim finds them, he never says anything.

 

***

 

“You taste nice,” Jim says one day after a sloppy, hurried blow job in a bathroom in one of the lecture buildings.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” McCoy asks, tucking himself away and moving to wash his hands.

“It means I like the way you taste,” Jim shrugs, standing up and brushing off the knees of his reds. McCoy reaches out and smooths down the parts of Jim’s hair he mussed when he buried his hands into it and tugged because he couldn’t help himself.

“As opposed to . . .?”

“I’ve always liked the way you taste,” Jim says, pressing their lips together briefly before leaving the bathroom.

McCoy spends the agreed-upon five minutes adjusting his uniform and dabbing cold water on his face and neck to try to tone down his flush. Jim is waiting around the corner, no doubt undoing all of his efforts to make it look like they weren’t having a quickie in the bathroom. And when he absently licks his lips, he decides he might not taste half-bad mixed with Jim.

Weird kid.

 

***

 

Jim likes a lot of things. Actually, it’s a lot easier to keep track of the things Jim doesn’t like than the things he does. Like being told he can’t do something. Or January. Or, inexplicably, applesauce.

So when Jim says he likes the way McCoy smells or tastes, McCoy attributes it to his biochemical quirkiness and doesn’t read into it. For whatever reason, Jim’s brain thinks his chemical makeup is nice. That’s it. He also seems to think lots of other people’s biochemical makeups are, at the very least, tolerable. Some of which shouldn’t even really be compatible with humans.

As far as McCoy’s concerned, Jim tastes and smells human and male, neither especially pleasant nor unpleasant. He’s familiar. Enough so that he can tell when Jim has taken a nap in his bed between classes while McCoy was out or borrowed a shirt and put it back in his closet without washing it, hoping he wouldn’t notice. He definitely doesn’t jerk off with his face pressed into the sheets those nights or wear those shirts under his reds or his scrubs as soon as he finds them. Jim just does it and he puts up with it.

 

***

 

“Fuck yeah, Bones,” Jim breathes as McCoy thrusts into him.

“Shut the fuck up and concentrate,” he growls, adjusting his sweaty grip on the inside of Jim’s knee and trying not to overbalance them.

Jim had let himself in again while McCoy was on shift at the clinic, forgoing the gym today in favor of doing pull-ups in the bathroom doorway. Naked. So McCoy had come home to a full view of Jim’s sweaty, naked back as he lifted himself by practically his fingertips, grunting quietly with each exhale.

(“What the fuck are you doing?”

Grunt. “Pull-ups.”

“Why?”

Grunt. “Strengthening my fingers.” Grunt. “Good for rock climbing.”

“Why are you _naked_?”

Grunt. “Dunno.” Grunt. “Complaining?”)

The room smelled like sweat and exertion and McCoy had had a long, boring shift, so walking over and pressing himself to the length of Jim’s back on his next extension had made a strange kind of sense.

“Hold on,” he growled into Jim’s neck as Jim tried to stand, leaving him teetering on his tiptoes to grab the lube. Jim swung a little as McCoy prepped him, fingers sliding over his skin with lube and sweat. And then McCoy had lifted one of Jim’s legs, pulling it up towards his chest, testing the limits of his flexibility and making him gasp as he pushed in.

“What happens if I— _ah_ —let go?” Jim pants. The position forces McCoy’s thrusts into short little stabs that frustrate both of them, but McCoy likes it, the straining toward release, grasping for something just out of reach. He has a loose grip around the base of Jim’s throat, holding him close and as still as he can.

“I stop. We probably fall.”

“Right. ‘Kay.”

“You good?”

“Golden,” Jim manages, trying to swing his weight a bit and lean in counterpoint to McCoy’s thrusts and gain a little more friction, a little more depth. McCoy’s close as it is, Jim’s trembling muscles and harsh breathing surprisingly arousing. All it takes is a broken little whimper and McCoy’s coming, gripping hard enough to bruise, his face pressed into Jim’s shoulder.

“Fuck, Bones,” Jim moans as McCoy pulls out and manages to duck beneath Jim’s lifted leg and fall to his knees to get his mouth on Jim’s dick. It only takes a few hard sucks and Jim spills into his mouth, crying out loudly as his abs spasm. McCoy holds him through it, easing him down to the flats of his feet with hands on his waist. Jim collapses anyway into a sprawled heap on the floor, shaking and flexing his fingers as McCoy slumps against the door jamb.

“Okay?” he asks, needing a moment before he can move and check on Jim properly.

Jim makes a noise to the affirmative and visibly settles himself more comfortably, eyes closed and slightly beatific grin plastered on his face.

After a few minutes, McCoy manages to drag himself into the bathroom and wash up a bit, snagging and wetting a washcloth for Jim. He curses his own shortsightedness when he has to sit on the floor in order to wipe Jim down, which is much less forgiving on sore, used muscles than the softness of a bed.

“If we add this to my regular regimen I’ll never have to worry about falling off of anything ever,” Jim says, still grinning and moving his fingers.

“Don’t count on it,” McCoy grumbles, tossing the washcloth at the sink. Temporary insanity, divine inspiration, whatever it was that struck him, he doesn’t see it hitting him again anytime soon. Jim’s the inventive, crazy one.

“Just another reason to have at least one hook installed into the ceiling of my eventual captain’s quarters. I’d install one in here myself if facilities wouldn’t find it pretty much immediately. 

McCoy snorts, eyeing Jim’s hands for signs of stiffness or strain.

“Like you wouldn’t enjoy stringing me up. I see you, Bones. You think I’m not paying attention half the time, but I see you. We’d both enjoy it.”

Sobering, McCoy takes in Jim’s serious face and doesn’t bother denying it. They look at each other for a moment, and then Jim grins and the tension breaks and from there on the evening is just laughter and takeout and homework, just like any other night. But McCoy watches him a little more carefully from then on, just to see if he can catch Jim looking.

 

***

 

McCoy’s become alarmingly used to waking up to Jim’s weight sprawled over him. At first it was merely for convenience’s sake: Jim had an early class three days a week in the building two doors down from McCoy’s dorm and they were fucking anyway, so, might as well.

But three days a week with the occasional drunken Saturday night thrown in didn’t stop after that semester, and it occasionally expanded to nights in Jim’s dorm when McCoy didn’t feel like dragging himself across campus from the library or astronomy lab late at night. He even had the code to Jim’s room in case Jim was out being “entertained” by someone or other. (Fortunately, Jim’s roommate is a nice kid who spends most of his nights with his Rigelian third- or fourth-gender something-friend and doesn’t mind the intrusion.)

McCoy’s double bed can handle the two of them much more easily than Jim’s extra-long twin, so they stick to McCoy’s room more often than not. Even though Jim sleeps like the extra width doesn’t exist, plastering himself against McCoy like gum to the sole of a shoe, so he’s used to a heavy thigh thrown over his own, or an arm across his back. Or feet hooked around his ankles or the bend of his knee and a face pressed into his neck or shoulder. And he’s had time to become an expert in rolling a sleeping Jim off of his arm and disentangling their legs so he can get out of bed without a fuss.

This morning, though, McCoy wakes up to find an absence of Jim drooling on his pillow. He knows Jim is still in the bed, but it takes a few minutes to figure out that Jim is lying perpendicular to him, curled up in the space between him and the wall, head pillowed on his bare ass. He can just barely see the twinkle in Jim’s eyes when he looks over his shoulder, letting his head fall back onto the pillow as he sleepily tries to patch together some sort of complaint.

“Morning, fuzzy-buns.”

“No.” McCoy buries his face in the crook of his elbow, willing Jim to go away.

“Hate to break it to you, Bones—” Jim rubs his cheek against McCoy’s ass, stubble scraping along the skin “—but the chronometer doesn’t lie.”

“Not what I was objecting to.”

“I don’t know, it’s pretty fuzzy from where I’m lying.”

McCoy sighs. He’s got hair on his ass. He’s a man. He’s got hair a lot of other places too and he doesn’t give any of it a second thought. It’s not his fault most of Jim’s body hair is light and fine and mostly invisible. “We talked about pet names. And how much I hate them.”

“Right, Bones. Sorry, Bones. My mistake. Bones.” He can feel Jim’s grin. And then a wet, smacking kiss on his ass. “Mm. To be continued at a later date,” he says, launching out of bed and disappearing into the bathroom.

Rather than dwell on what Jim means, McCoy drags the covers back onto the bed and settles in for another hour or so of sleep, lulled by the sound of water pattering on tiles and Jim humming to himself.

 

***

 

McCoy registers the movement of the bed first, before Jim’s quiet, whispered “Hey.”

“Jim?” he asks stupidly, because who else would show up in his bed in the middle of the night, plastering himself along his back?

Scrubbing his face against the pillow, he tries to dislodge sleep and the gunk in his eyes in case he has to do anything with the medkit on his bedside table. But Jim doesn’t smell like booze or blood, and the lips placing lingering kisses along the back of his neck and shoulders aren’t sticky but soft.

“Jim.”

“Yeah,” Jim whispers against his spine, working his way back up toward his face as McCoy tries to twist around and onto his back. Jim pins him with a hand on his shoulder and the weight of his knees on the blankets, effectively trapping him on his stomach.

Even his sleep-addled brain can come up with a few reasons why Jim might not want him to move, and it twists his gut with sudden, unbidden arousal. He’s not entirely sure this isn’t a dream. He’s not sure he cares.

He lets out a shuddering breath when Jim licks the shell of his ear, scraping gently with his teeth. Then Jim’s mouth is on his, sloppy and off-kilter, more teeth and tongue than a meeting of lips. Jim’s erection is apparent even through the several layers of fabric separating them, and McCoy can’t help but lift his hips and press back into it, tacitly agreeing to whatever it is that Jim wants.

Jim groans quietly into the kiss and pulls back, pressing a few hard, pointed kisses to McCoy’s neck as he pulls the covers back. The cold air makes him tense, but Jim’s hands are warm and firm as they rub up and down the length of his back, digging into a few of the knots that give him trouble, coaxing him back into relaxing.

He hears the rustle of Jim taking off his shirt and dropping it over the side of the bed before Jim’s mouth is on the center of his back, insinuating itself downward as Jim’s fingers curl in the waistband of his underwear. Before he can register he’s doing it, McCoy starts rocking his dick into the mattress, mindlessly seeking friction against the rapidly dampening inside of his boxer briefs. He lifts up only briefly to allow his underwear to be tugged down, erection trapped in bunched fabric as Jim moves back up to kiss him.

Jim’s sweatpants are rough against him as he arches back, adjusting to get the line of Jim’s erection pressed along the cleft of his ass.

“Fuck, Bones,” Jim breathes, catching his hand as he reaches for the lube and interlacing their fingers together as he presses it back to the bed. “I’ll have to wake you up for sex more often. I don’t think you’ve ever been this eager.”

“Lube,” he insists a little petulantly, clenching around the need to be filled with something, anything. He can’t remember _needing_ so acutely with anyone but Jim, but if this is a dream he’s going to damn well try to get what he wants.

Jim chuckles close to his ear. “Yeah, I got that. That’s not what I want right now.”

Not a dream, then. McCoy growls and Jim scrapes his teeth over the pulse in his neck, twitching against his ass.

“Fuck. I promise, if you still want it when I’m finished, you’ll get it. All you ever have to do is ask. But, please, Bones. I’ve been wanting this for weeks.”

“Wanting _what_?” He’s wriggling and he can’t help it. He can feel Jim’s heart hammering against his back, faster than arousal and maybe just this side of panicky. Anxiety creeps up the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that Jim has never intentionally done anything he wouldn’t like. And Jim isn’t bleeding or trying to distract him from something.

Jim’s inhale has the tiniest waver to it. McCoy probably wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t practically into his ear. “When was the last time you showered?” Sadly, it’s not the weirdest question Jim’s asked in bed.

“Sonic or real?”

“Either.”

McCoy has to think. He’s not even sure what time it is now, much less how his evening went. “Got out of surgery around 2030 and had a decon. Then I went to the gym for an hour or so at 2200, came back and rinsed off before bed. Why?”

But Jim is already moving down his body, dragging his lips over the small of his back as he pulls the boxer briefs down past his knees before pushing one of his legs up and out, spreading him in a way that would make him flush if the room weren’t dark and he weren’t desperate.

He starts when breath ghosts over the most vulnerable part of him, Jim’s hands stroking his ass, thumbs spreading him gently. “Jim—”

“Please, Bones. I know what you want to say—but just, please. Let me.”

He could list all the reasons this one sexual act still clings to the vestiges of taboo, all the ways it would make him uncomfortable if he weren’t aroused and staring it in the face. But Jim’s whispered plea overrides all of that, clenching around his heart and his balls such that he can’t find it in himself to say no.

“Okay,” he says, letting out a shuddering breath.

Jim thanks him with a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the perineum that culminates in a slow lick upwards that makes McCoy’s insides liquefy. He clutches the pillow as Jim repeats the move, fighting the urge to thrust against the bed.

It’s so _wet_ , the air cold and uncomfortable in the wake of the flat of Jim’s tongue. And then Jim’s tongue traces a circle and he groans, imagining that he can feel every ridge of puckered skin, every nerve ending flaring to life. Jim tries pushing into him even though he’s too tight for it right now, but the thought of that slick muscle inside of him makes him tremble and shove back against Jim, who moans and adjusts his grip to spread McCoy with the heels of his hands and kiss him open as filthily as he’s capable of.

After only a few moments, McCoy is writhing and clutching the pillow in a white-knuckled grip, desperately seeking pressure for his dick but not wanting Jim to stop.

Jim is making constant little humming sounds of pleasure and approval, the sound vibrating all the way through to McCoy’s core. He vaguely wonders if this is what women feel like during oral sex: rubbed raw in the face of such intimacy, desperate both for it to end and never end.

And then Jim’s tongue finds its way inside him and he can’t help the strangled sound that makes its way out of him as his hips jerk hard, tragically dislodging Jim. “Christ, Bones,” he hears Jim whisper as a forearm presses his hips to the bed. Jim tucks McCoy’s outstretched leg next to his body so he can put his weight on it as he dips back down.

Not being able to move crystalizes every minute movement of Jim’s mouth and tongue as they move against him, until he has no control over his body and his voice catches on every exhalation. He had no idea his body was capable of this much pleasure, every drag or thrust of Jim’s tongue melting his spine anew and making his dick throb with frustrated need.

He wonders where Jim learned this, how many people he’s convinced to let him take them apart like this. Whether someone talked him through his first time or if he just took to it on instinct. Whether Jim likes having this done to him. If he could like doing this to Jim. The questions churn in his belly with all the arousal as Jim rims him stupid, thumb stroking behind his balls, pressing gently against his prostate.

“Oh, god,” McCoy moans, suddenly overwhelmed.

“Do you want to come with my tongue or my dick up your ass?” Jim asks breathily.

“Oh, _god_.”

“If I were, you could have both. But you have to pick.”

“You—I don’t— _please_.”

Jim strokes a soothing hand down his spine. “Okay, Bones, okay. I’ll take care of you.”

When Jim’s hand nudges under him and wraps around his dick he practically sobs with relief, only to stop breathing as Jim’s tongue returns to his ass, pressing into him insistently and thrusting as he squeezes with his fingers.

That’s how he comes, Jim’s hand not even needing to move, just squeezing as he grunts into the pillow and thrashes.

Jim holds him through the aftershocks, bringing him down with little kitten licks and a final gentle kiss. McCoy lies there, catching his breath, trying to wrap his brain around what just happened.

“Bones,” Jim says, his voice strained. “Can I—? It’ll only take a minute, I just need—fuck, please, you’re so—”

He grabs the lube and passes it back. He hears the cap open and several slick sounds and then there’s a gentle, probing finger testing his resistance.

The burning stretch as Jim pushes into him is almost a relief, giving him something to focus on, something he’s familiar with. His nerves are still sparking and he’s lying in his own mess, but Jim is whispering a constant litany of praise, leaning down close enough to brush his lips between his shoulders.

Jim is trembling and that’s . . . new.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it because Jim starts thrusting carefully, like he’s worried McCoy will break. And then he scrapes over McCoy’s prostate, making him gasp sharply, the sensation too much too soon, and Jim stops, mumbling _sorry_ over and over into the back of his neck.

“Go on,” McCoy says after a few seconds and Jim starts moving again, faster this time, tilting his hips to avoid his prostate. It doesn’t take long before Jim is coming, sweaty face plastered to his back, breath gusting over his skin.

They disengage carefully and McCoy is finally able to roll over onto his back and get a good look at Jim.

“I should—” Jim gestures vaguely at his mouth and rolls off the bed, stepping out of his sweatpants and underwear as he makes his way into the bathroom. He looks flushed and vulnerable to McCoy, so he lets him go, kicking off his own underwear from where they’re bunched around his shins.

Jim takes longer in the bathroom than usual, and when he comes out his expression is shuttered in a way that McCoy sees only when he’s actively trying to maintain the Jim Kirk, devil-may-care cadet act. He wipes McCoy down gently before tossing the washcloth into the laundry chute.

“C’mere.”

Jim lies down gingerly. “I used the sterilizing field in the bathroom and some of your mouthwash, but I could brush—”

“That’s fine. Come here.” He cups Jim’s jaw and kisses him, tasting nothing but mint, feeling Jim relax incrementally. They kiss for several minutes, gentle and almost chaste.

“Now, what was all that? We usually talk about things before we try them.”

Jim laughs a little breathlessly. “Yeah, I know, right? I just—you know how much I like going down on women?”

“I’ve heard some things.” Some of them were even from Jim, in pornographic detail. But there were also rumblings around campus that, though prolific, Jim is definitely a giver in the bedroom. Really, there are much worse reputations to have.

“And you _know_ how much I like going down on you. I guess I just started thinking that maybe there’s a happy, best-of-both-worlds medium. And then I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“I see. So you decided to sneak into my room and spring it on me?”

Jim looks appropriately chastised. “No. I couldn’t sleep. I thought why not kill two birds with one stone? Try out the thing that I’ve been thinking about and maybe benefit from the soporific effects of an orgasm.”

McCoy snorts. “Typical.”

“Basic tactics, Bones.”

“Well, that was certainly—”

“I know, I know, irresponsible, reckless, unsanitary, et cetera. We don’t have to do it again, I just wanted to try it with you.” Jim is staring at the ceiling, hands on his stomach, looking like he’s getting ready to bolt.

“I was going to say ‘educational.’”

Jim looks at him, a smile starting to pull at the corners of his mouth. “You did seem to be enjoying yourself.”

Now it’s McCoy’s turn to seriously consider bolting. “I . . . didn’t hate it.”

Sidling closer, Jim runs his hand up McCoy’s thigh suggestively. “Does that mean we can do it again?”

“With actual warning, so proper precautions can be taken.”

“Deal. But I can’t guarantee I won’t wake you up in the middle of the night for a fuck.”

“Well, then, I can’t guarantee you’ll get anything but a black eye if you do.”

Jim laughs and kisses him again, relief written into the lines of his body. “Can I stay?”

“If you take the wet spot.”

“Beyond worth it, Bones.”

And as Jim sprawls over him, face pressing into his neck, McCoy can’t shake the sneaking suspicion that this was the goal all along.


End file.
